


I'll be right beside you (... even in your dreams)

by adrina_stark



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Modern AU delusions, Near-death Experiences, Poisoning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-11
Updated: 2014-12-11
Packaged: 2018-03-01 01:27:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2754440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adrina_stark/pseuds/adrina_stark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You make it sound like the poison is alive." / "Those who survive tell tales of fantastical delusions - a reality they could have sworn was real. Only the strong survive this." / "Clarke is strong."</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll be right beside you (... even in your dreams)

Bellamy can feel the ache in his legs, his shoulders, his arms, the need to just stop and rest. He can see the statue from Lincoln’s village and fixes on that point.

 

_One more step. One more step._

 

Clarke gives a small groan in his arms, his motivation to keep moving and his vision of the statue blurs.

 

“Clarke, Clarke, it’s okay, you’re going to be okay. Fuck, Clarke, you need to stay awake.”

 

She groans again and he forces himself to move faster, to ignore the burn, to keep moving.

 

He stumbles into the village, pulling Clarke closer when he notices the hostility on the faces on the villages. It fades slightly when they recognise them – he imagines they must be quite a sight, bloody and battered – before one of them, he thinks it may have been Ezekiel, runs off calling for Nyko while Bellamy is guided into their healing centre.

 

“You can put her down now,” a soothing voice tells him, “Nyko is coming.”

 

“I can’t,” Bellamy says with exhaustion, “I can’t move my arms.”

 

There is tutting around him as the villagers – Reyna and Lee, he notes blearily – gently ease Clarke out of his arms. His legs give out once she is placed in the bed and he gingerly touches the blood that has seeped into his shirt.

 

“There’s so much,” he whispers.

 

They had done their best to bandage it, but the arrow wound in Clarke’s shoulder was bleeding profusely and Bellamy will freely admit to panicking when Clarke claimed the arrow was poisoned – that she could feel it moving through her system. His panic increased when she fell unconscious but it was a panic he used to make himself move faster when he began to tire.

 

The canvas on the door is pushed aside as Nyko strides in, ignoring Bellamy and moving straight to Clarke.

 

“It was just an arrow wound,” Bellamy says, hearing the plea in his own voice as Nyko examines her, “One, maybe two hours ago. We bandaged it up and then she started to feel something and she’s been drifting in and out of unconsciousness.”

 

Nyko sits back on his feels with a sigh that has Bellamy scrambling over to Clarke’s side, “What is it?”

 

“I have seen these symptoms several times,” Nyko explains, “They wound is not dangerous, but the poison is.”

 

“But you can cure it?” Bellamy hates that it’s even a question and his throat constricts as Nyko pauses.

 

“Yes,” the Grounder says after a moment, “But the cure is often worse than the poison.”

 

“What does that even mean?”

 

Nyko taps his head, “The poison effects the mind – the body dies because it gives up. The heart stops beating, lungs stop breathing. The cure will allow the person to fight back, only if they choose.”

 

Bellamy glares at him, “That’s bullshit. You make it sound like the poison is alive.”

 

The Grounder shrugs, “Those who survive tell tales of fantastical delusions – a reality they could have sworn was real. But they all rejected it to be false.”

 

“And if they accept it?” Bellamy asks with a gulp.

 

Nyko’s eyes are solemn, “None who survive have ever accepted the reality. Only the strong survive this.”

 

“Clarke is strong,” he says fiercely, eyes burning.

 

“We shall see,” is all he says before he turns to Reyna and Lee, speaking his own language. Bellamy has not learnt enough to be able to translate, not that it would make much of a difference as his entire attention is focused upon Clarke.

 

“I will prepare it,” Nyko says as he stands, “If she wakes, instruct her about the trial ahead.”

 

Bellamy moves closer to Clarke, brushing her hair off her clammy forehead. She groans and shifts, but doesn’t wake.

 

“You don’t get to leave me, princess,” he whispers into her hair, “Please don’t leave me.”

 

He hears a strangled groan, “Bellamy?”

 

Bellamy moves back, taking one of her sweaty hands in her own. He always marvelled at her hands, appearing so soft and delicate, able to save a person and take a life with the same movement.

 

“I’m here, Clarke,” he whispers, blinking back his tears.

 

“It hurts.”

 

“I know,” he chokes, kissing her hand, wishing he could take all her pain, “I know it does, but Nyko is making you a cure.”

 

“We need to get back to camp, the others will start to worry,” her sentence is punctuated by a coughing fit and Bellamy gratefully accepts the water Reyna offers.

 

“We are not going anywhere,” he says firmly as he helps Clarke have a drink, “We are going to stay right here while you play patient for once.”

 

Clarke gives a weak smile before she starts coughing again, any humour Bellamy may have felt quickly fading away.

 

“Move,” Nyko says brusquely and he quickly scrambles out of the way, letting Nyko sit with Clarke.

 

“You will need to drink this,” Nyko says as Clarke eyes the concoction in his hand warily, “And when you do you will see things – know that they are not real. You must reject them as not being real in order to recover. Do you understand?”

 

“No,” Clarke begins before Nyko tips her head and forces her to drink. She splutters before he stands, looking with what Bellamy can only describe as concern, “The rest is up to her, all we can do is attempt to keep her fever manageable and have her continue to drink water.”

 

“Bellamy, what’s going on?” Clarke asks weakly, her eyes fluttering.

 

Bellamy picks up her hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze, “You are going to be absolutely fine. Because you are the strongest person I know, Clarke, you can do anything you set your mind to.”

 

He gets one last look of blue eyes – the colour he pictured when he dreamt of the sky – before they close and her breathing eases. He allows the threatening tears to fall now, pouring all of his feelings for Clarke to a kiss on her knuckles.

 

“Please don’t leave me, Clarke, I can’t do this without you.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke wakes in a panic, sitting up and squinting at the light streaming through her curtains. She looks around, realising she’s in her dorm room and the loud noise is her alarm going off. She slaps the alarm, needing to hit it twice before it turns off and flops back onto her pillow.

 

She uses her arm to cover her eyes, trying to shake her dream. She can feel the sweat on her brow and cannot shake the vague sense of danger. It feels like she’s forgotten something important but the more her mind reaches for the dream, the more it drifts away, like she’s grasping at air.

 

When she feels calmer, she climbs out of bed and goes to wash her face, determined to put her strange dream behind her.

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke is rushing across campus, steps hurried and books held uncomfortably to her chest. A mood had been clinging to her all morning and she is frustrated by the effect of a dream she cannot even remember.

 

She’s frowning, blaming the stresses of college when she’s suddenly hitting a solid – very solid – object and flying backwards, books dropping from her arms.

 

“Shit,” she mutters, reaching for her scattered books, ignoring the other person.

 

“You need to watch where you’re walking,” a gruff voice says, “Princess.”

 

The world seems to shift as scenes flash through Clarke’s mind.

 

_‘Brave princess,’ a derisive voice mocks, the smell of damp earth fills her lungs, a more admiring tone, ‘Looking to you, princess,’ depthless brown eyes_.

 

Clarke shakes herself out of her reverie to meet... Brown eyes. She cannot stop the gasp that emerges, uncaring of how it might be taken.

 

Those eyes are currently looking to Clarke with concern, probably fearing he had run into a crazy woman, “Are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine,” she mutters, picking up random volumes, “Uh, sorry.”

 

She quickly stands up and begins to walk away, muttering another apology as she goes. Her heart is pounding in her chest and the strange feeling is suffocating her. She can barely resist the urge to run as she makes her way to class, feeling brown eyes on her back the entire time.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s slighter calmer once she’s taken her seat, letting the bustle of the lecture hall soothe over her. She’s sorting through her now messy pile of books when she notices one that is unfamiliar.

 

The noise in the hall is settling down as the lecturer enters, Clarke flicking the book open.

 

_Property of Bellamy Blake_ , is written at the top of the page in a bold script, as well as a mobile number. She delicately traces over the name and feels another flush at her actions earlier. She still had no clue what came over her, but she had skipped the ‘lusty teen’ phase – or had dabbled before she realised it wasn’t worth her time – and had no intention to start now, regardless of how attractive this Bellamy Blake was.

 

The book is filled with handwritten notes, scribbles covering every section, arrows linking random sections. She doesn’t notice when the lecture begins, swept away by notes about war and the mindset of conquerors and those who wrought destruction.

 

_I know who Oppenheimer is, a voice chides._

 

Clarke is too entranced to ignore it.   

 

She’s startled later, when the noise of her peers starts up and they begin to move out of the lecture hall. She hadn’t even noticed that the lecture had started, let alone finished and she sighs as she fishes her bag out of her phone, acknowledging she has property she needs to return.

 

* * *

 

Bellamy Blake is a mystery to her. Granted, she’s only met him once and exchanged a couple of texts – all cordial – but he still seems to be a man of contradictions. An irritable yet seemingly gentle man, handsome features enhanced by the scar on his cheek. A sharp mind going by his notes, graceful handwriting detailing war. He uses perfect grammar in his texts and yet seems strangely fond of emoticons.

 

The location he picked to meet seems to be a quiet, old diner – not that there’s anything wrong with it, it’s simply not what she pictured as being Bellamy Blake’s ‘scene’.

 

He’s already seated when she enters, long legs brushing the floor as he waves her over from his stool. She ignores the butterflies that erupt at his smile – actually long before he smiles – and slips onto the seat next to him.

 

“What are you drinking?”

 

_“Why don’t you get a drink? It looks like you could use one.” The stars are glittering overhead and the breeze is cool on her skin, “I could use more than one.” Laughter fills her ears, “Then have more than one.”_

 

“I can get my own drink,” she insists.

 

“It’s fine,” he says airily, “You are returning very important property to me, princess.”

 

Clarke shakes her head and narrows her eyes, “What’s with the nickname?”

 

Bellamy shrugs and Clarke’s eyes are draw to his well-fitted shirt before she pulls them back to his face – the heat flashing across her skin only seems to grow stronger.

 

“I have to call you something, don’t I?”

 

“Clarke,” she replies after a beat, “And I’ll have a coffee. Black.”

 

“Clarke,” he says, testing her name and her mind does not flash to other situations in which he could be repeating it. He repeats her order and asks for a tea for himself.

 

She pulls his book out of her bag and slides it over, “I believe this belongs to you.”

 

Bellamy picks it up and flicks through the pages, smiling at her gratefully.

 

“You have no idea how screwed I would have been without this.”

 

“What is it for?” She asks, nodding gratefully as she accepts her coffee. Clarke notes the girl’s name is Monroe, as unusual as her own –

 

_Her hair is in an intricate braid, gun resting comfortably in her arms as she asks Clarke what their next move is..._

 

\- Clarke shakes herself, focusing on Bellamy’s words.

 

“... It’s my thesis, I have saved notes of course, but this book is where the magic happens.”

 

She sips, letting the warmth fill her in an attempt to calm her racing heart before saying apologetically, “I may have looked through it, it seems really interesting.”

 

Bellamy perks up in his seat, his face suddenly alight with enthusiasm, “It’s especially relevant to get into the mindset of military leaders now, especially with all the tension. I mean-”

 

He suddenly flushes and shuts his mouth with a click, “But you don’t want to hear about that.”

 

Clarke shuffles to the edge of her seat and puts on her best listening face, “What if I do?” She teases.

 

Bellamy is all too eager to pick up where he left off, punctuating his sentences with wild gestures. Clarke tries to pay attention – she really does – but she gets distracted by the timbre of his voice, the crinkle of his eyes and the way she smiles. The words wash over her as Clarke simply sits, entranced.

 

He eventually shakes his head, shaking Clarke out of her own reverie, “Enough at me, what do you study?”

 

“I’m pre-med,” she says quickly, wishing she shared the enthusiasm for her studies that Bellamy did.

 

“You don’t sound excited about that, princess,” Bellamy observes.

 

Clarke gazes at him sharply before she shrugs, “My Mom’s a doctor. I wonder sometimes if that’s why I chose it. How’s your family with your studies?”

 

“My Mom’s pretty chill about it,” he laughs, “She just lets me ramble on and drafts my work for me.”

 

Clarke isn’t sure why exactly she asks, but the question seems important somehow, “No siblings?”

 

“No,” Bellamy says with a wave of his hand. The ‘wrong’ feeling comes back at Clarke at full force, Bellamy’s words coming towards her almost likes she’s underwater, “Fuck, I don’t think I’d get any work done if I had a little sister. I’d spend all my time worrying about her.”

 

She can feel a weak smile tug at her lips in response to the one he sends her, but it feels fake to her.

 

She doesn’t understand the pit in her stomach nor the words that come out of her mouth, “Octavia,” she says, and clarifies at Bellamy’s confused look, “Octavia Blake sounds nice.”

 

He laughs, a sound that seems to vibrate through his chest, “Is that the sort of impression I’ve been giving? One that shows me as a history nerd?” He shakes his head ruefully, “I need to work on that.”

 

The mirth in his eyes dies when he observes her and he shuffles closer, “Hey, are you feeling alright? You’re looking a little pale.”

 

Clarke nods weakly and gathers her things, “I’ll be fine, I think I might go lie down. Good luck with your thesis,” she calls as she quickly moves out of the diner, leaving Bellamy calling after her.

 

* * *

 

Clarke didn’t know what the hell was wrong. She doesn’t leave the house – barely leaves her bed – can’t shake the feeling that the world outside is wrong. That something about the life she lives is fake.

 

She can’t escape her dreams, the images that flash through her mind.

 

_Damp earth, guns, explosions, blood and always Bellamy_.

 

Not the same – this one had more scars, shaggier hair, but eyes still gentle, looking to her like she’s the brightest thing in his universe.

 

She ignores her phone, calls from her parents and the couples of texts she gets from Bellamy, asking if she’s okay.

 

She doesn’t know if she is, doesn’t know if she’s experiencing some sort of mental break or if she’s overly stressed.

 

She sits in her dark room, buried in blankets and lets the flashes come.

 

* * *

 

Clarke is unwashed and still in her pyjamas as she answers the door, uncaring at this point, only to come face to face with Bellamy Blake.

 

“Uh, hi,” she gets out, suddenly conscious of the fact she is not wearing a bra.

 

“Hey,” he smiles, holding out a take-out container, “I thought this would be good if you were sick, it’s helped me through a lot of my own sicknesses.”

 

She stares at the container warily, “How’d you find out where I live?”

 

He flushes a runs a hand through his hair, “There isn’t a lot of student accommodation around so I may have gone around asking if a ‘Clarke’ lived in a bunch of different buildings, I told them I had something of yours to return.”

 

Bellamy shakes the container – an offer and Clarke accepts it, noting that it is still warm.

 

“You did seem really unwell the other day, are you feeling better?”

 

Clarke nearly laughs at the polite question – she is sure she looks anything but presentable at the moment, “A little better.”

 

“If you think you’ll be feeling better maybe later in the week, do you think I could buy you another drink?”

 

Clarke stares – thrown by the offer, “Thank you, that’s very kind,” she starts before Bellamy cuts in.

 

“I’m at the diner at 7.30 most mornings if you’d like to join, I hope you feel better, princess.”

 

Bellamy is walking down the hallway before she can get another word in and she quickly closes the door, leaning against it with a sigh. The container is warming up her fingers and for the first time in days, Clarke smiles.

 

* * *

 

It’s Saturday when Clarke finally feels strong enough to leave her room. She’s missed out on nearly a week of classes but she can’t find it in herself to care, considering it an accomplishment that she’s showered and out in the sun.

 

She finds her legs moving towards the diner – she hadn’t really considered a destination – and hesitantly opens the door. She’s actually surprised to discover her watch works but doesn’t note much beyond the fact it’s twenty to eight because she’s spots Bellamy at the counter.

 

She sits next to him without a word, ignoring the butterflies his bright smile stirs.

 

“Good morning, princess,” he says, “Another coffee?”

 

Clarke nods, not willing to get into another argument about who pays. The silence between them is companionable, surprising considering it’s unlikely they’ve spent a whole hour together.

 

“Are you feeling better?” He asks, concern evident.

 

Clarke nods and Bellamy seems to relax, “Good.”

 

_“That’s good,” he says, surprising Clarke with his gentle words. The smell of sickness permeates the air but for a moment, she can be relived._

 

Clarke pulls herself out of it as she accepts her coffee, secretly glad it wasn’t the same girl.

 

“What’s on your agenda for today, Clarke?”

 

She shrugs, blowing on her drink, “I haven’t thought ahead that far.”

 

“There’s an art gallery opening if you’re interested.”

 

Clarke raises an eyebrow, delighted by Bellamy’s growing flush, “I may have noticed the sketchbook in your bag,” he mutters.

 

He seems to be steeling himself for rejection when she smiles, “That sounds fun.”

 

* * *

 

Her face actually hurts from smiling too much and Clarke is barely resisting the urge to dance around like a fool. The whole day passed with her noticing, the art gallery turning into lunch, which turned into a movie, which turned into dinner, which turned into Clarke being escorted home by a very attractive and very sweet man.

 

“This is me,” she says, gesturing to her door, air thick with tension.

 

“So it is,” he replies, giving no stray thought away.

 

Clarke wonders about the protocol on kisses on the first date when technically they went on about three.

 

“I had a lot of fun today,” it’s not an accurate description but she wants to draw it out as long as she can.

 

His eyes light up, “You and me both, princess.”

 

It is that nickname, teasing yet fond on his tongue that pushes her to act on her impulse, lips surging to meet his.

 

_They were arguing – again – when she’s finally tired and wants him to stop talking. After a week of little sleep and copious stress, kissing him to silence seemed like the best option. Bellamy’s lips are still under her own and she’s worries that she’s has ruined everything about their fragile partnership as she pulls back, looking into Bellamy’s shocked face. She’s got the first syllable of his name out before his hands reach out to her cheeks and he’s kissing her, hard and hungrily._

 

There is barely a beat of hesitation before Bellamy kisses her back, one hand snaking around to her back while the other tangles in her hair. It’s deeper than a first date kiss should be – makes her knees shake and head spin like no other kiss has.

 

_Her senses are suddenly flooded, Bellamy’s soft lips under her own, the warmth through his shirt, the smell of sweat, the feel of the bark at her back as Bellamy slips a calloused hand under her shirt-_

 

All other thoughts fade from her mind and she’s only aware of the pounding of her heart and the taste of Bellamy Blake.

 

* * *

 

Clarke’s breathing is laboured as Bellamy applies another damp cloth to her brow, unable to do anything else.

 

“She’s getting worse,” he says to Nyko, desperate, wanting the other man to disagree.

 

Nyko shakes his head sadly, “Her fight is leaving her. It will soon be over.”

 

Bellamy turns back to Clarke, throwing his cloth to the side to grab her hand, shuffling closer.

 

“Clarke, please, I’m begging you here,” the words are getting stuck in his throat and his eyes are burning, “please, princess, don’t make me look after the kids all by myself. You know they respond much better to you. Just because you’re feeling a bit tired does not mean you get to quit on me, Clarke Griffin. You need to wake up and start bossing everyone around.”

 

His kisses her hand, trailing kisses to her forehead, watching his tears mingle with her sweat.

 

“Please.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke jerks awake, sweaty and panting and panics when a weight keeps her from sitting up. After a moment of struggling, she realises it’s Bellamy as he groans beside her, rubbing his eyes.

 

“Clarke, what is it?” He mumbles.

 

“It’s nothing,” she whispers, attempting to control her breathing, “Go back to sleep.”

 

Bellamy ignores her – typical – and sits up, tucking her hair behind her ear, “Do you want to talk about it?”

 

She shakes her head, “It was just a dream,” she huffs, “I don’t even remember it.”

 

He pulls her down and she snuggles into his chest, “Go back to sleep, princess,” he mutters, punctuating it with a yawn.

 

Clarke listens as Bellamy’s breathing begins to even out and her last thought before sleep overtakes her is to wonder how someone’s arms can at one moment, like the realest thing she’s ever experienced, then in another, feel like she’s being held by a stranger.

 

* * *

 

They have been told to stay in their homes, to not panic or create a fuss. She can’t get a hold of her parents, throwing her phone against their bed after another failed attempt.

 

Bellamy wraps his arms around her stomach, tucking his chin into her neck.

 

“They’ll be okay, Clarke,” he assures her, pressing a kiss to her temple, “We need to worry about ourselves.”

 

She turns in his arms, frowning in confusion, “What are we supposed to do Bellamy? We aren’t supposed to leave the house.”

 

“We’ll be fine. I interviewed one guy and he became extremely paranoid after the war. He built a bunker in his  own backyard and I know we can make it there. We can be safe.”

 

Clarke steps back and throws her hands up in the air, “What then, Bellamy? We’ll be alive but everyone we know will be dead in a nuclear war that doesn’t even make sense anymore?”

 

“I don’t know, Clarke, but I can’t simply stay here anymore and just wait for the end to come.”

 

She sighs and dashes the unexpected tears out of her eyes. With a sniff, she attempts to collect herself and takes Bellamy’s hand, “Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

Clarke doesn’t let go of his hand the entire trip, when she did try to pull away – scared she was squeezing too hard – he held on tighter, drawing as much strength from her as she did him.

 

The veteran, Bellamy had mentioned his name was Marcus and it had flickered something else in Clarke before it quickly faded, was not home. But he had apparently been so impressed with his own bunk that he had given a lengthy tutorial to Bellamy on how to operate and where he kept the security for it.

 

It is musty and dank inside but the feel of Bellamy’s warm hand in her own is all she needs to propel her forwards.

 

“Home sweet home,” she mutters.

 

* * *

 

It’s well provisioned in the bunker but Clarke has only had one meal and she’s already sick on canned food. They keep the radio on and listen to the updates, hearing the mounting list of casualties.

 

She’s not sure how long she sobs for after she hears of the destruction of her home town. Bellamy’s sobs when he heard the same news were quiet where hers were loud, each simply holding the other as the initial grief passed.

 

Bellamy was sleeping now, shadows flickering across his face from the candle.

 

Clarke watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest and his expression is so peaceful she could almost pretend that their entire world wasn’t ending. There is a pressure building behind her eyes, something that started at the mention of the first bomb.

 

His eyes flick open and they stare at each other, light shifting across their faces. The pressure mounts until Clarke feels like she’s living two lives at once.

 

“Clarke,” he starts, “I need you-”

 

_Her stomach is aching but she can’t allow herself to wallow yet, “You may be a total ass half the time, but I need you.”_

 

“- to tell me we did the right thing-”

 

_“Had to be done,” he assures her, his conviction evident. Clarke has to look away and when she reflects later, she realises it’s the first time she thinks of Bellamy as more than a partner._

 

“- that we’re going to be okay.”

 

_There is blood on her shirt, sticky and wet. Her head is tucked into Bellamy’s shoulder, his every step jarring her as he pleads, “... You’re going to be okay. Fuck, Clarke, you need to stay awake.”_

 

She struggles to get to her feet, swaying, looking at Bellamy who’s gazing back at her, eyes searching like she’s got all the answers. It’s right, but it’s not, not with the other Bellamy who won’t get out of her head.

 

“This isn’t real,” she whispers, moving towards the exit.

 

“Clarke?” Bellamy asks, confused, “What are you doing?”

 

She falters at the hurt in his voice, regardless of the fact she’s convinced it’s not real, her care for him, _love_ for him is one of the most powerful things she’s ever experienced. She closes her eyes, forcing the tears back and takes another step.

 

There is a desperate edge to his tone now, “Clarke, Clarke, if you do this you’ll be killing me.”

 

_She can’t move from her cover, only watch in despair, “He’s killing him.”_

 

“Clarke,” he’s pleading now and the tears fall down her face as she climbs the ladder, “Don’t leave me here.”

 

_She feels weak, unable to even open her eyes and hears a voice, echoing through her mind, “Please don’t leave me, Clarke.”_

 

The world outside is eerily quiet, her sobs and sniffs the only sounds she can hear. She looks around, searching for any sign of life and jumps at the sound of an explosion behind her. She watches the mushroom cloud form, unable to take her eyes away, content with the fact that regardless of the truth, it will be soon over.

 

The blast of energy dries the tears on her cheeks and burns her, until she cannot feel anything at all.

 

* * *

 

“Her fever has broken,” Nyko says as Bellamy slumps against the wall, suddenly exhausted.

 

“I told you she could do it.”

 

“Yes, you did.” There is an edge to Nyko’s tone, as close to admiration as he is willing to go for one of the Sky People – Octavia excluded, “She will need to continue to drink water and broth but she should wake up soon. The worst part is over, Bellamy.”

 

He stares after Nyko, noting the use of his name before moving to Clarke’s side, taking her limp hand.

 

“What’d I say, princess? You can do anything.”

 

* * *

 

It feels like years pass before Clarke has the strength to open her eyes, staring up at a damaged ceiling. She shifts her head and relief floods her chest at the sight of Bellamy, sleeping peacefully next to her.

 

She can’t stop the tears that fall, unable to even wipe them away. It’s relief, exhaustion and the conviction that this one is real, this is her Bellamy.

 

Light blinds her as the flap on the door is pushed aside. Nyko stomps in as her eyes adjust and she lets him examine her.

 

“What happened?” She asks thickly, her throat raw.

 

Nyko places a cup at her mouth and she drinks gratefully, attempting not to spill.

 

“You were poisoned,” he says bluntly, “But you fought it off. You will be weak for another day and then your strength should return.”

 

He stands and nudges Bellamy with his foot, “Blake, wake up.”

 

Bellamy jerks, making some sort of odd fighting stance before his eyes fall on Clarke and she finds herself roughly pulled into his arms.

 

“Ow,” she manages, face smothered by his shirt.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says as he gently lays her back down, “You had me so scared.”

 

“I don’t remember much.”

 

“We were out scouting,” he starts. Bellamy informs her of the ambush, taking her to the village and the poison. A grin tugs at his lips whenever his eyes fall back onto hers and nothing could dim the sparkle in his eyes.

 

As he explains her delusions, Clarke understands why her mind would use him as the greatest temptation to stay in that world.

 

“I love you,” she simply states after he finishes. He stares at her with shock for a moment before his lips are on her and she kisses him back with the little energy she has.

 

He presses his forehead to hers and she sighs, glad for the familiar warmth and touch.

 

“You stole my line, princess,” he accuses, smiling brightly, “I love you too.”

 

Clarke smiles tiredly in return, shifting on the bed to find a more comfortable position, “Do you think the kids got into trouble while we were away?”

 

“I do remember Monty saying something about making a more effective still.”

 

She chuckles, “So they’ve probably had a massive party while we been gone.”

 

He kisses her forehead and laughs with her, “Probably, but you don’t need to worry about that right now. You just need to sleep.”

 

“And you’ll stay?” She panics at the thought of dealing with another fake.

 

“I’ll be right here, Clarke, Nyko doesn’t scare me.”

 

“Liar,” she mutters before her eyes drift shut of their own accord. Her sleep is dreamless and when she wakes, she’s in Bellamy’s arms, exactly like he promised.


End file.
